


Accidentally Hurt by a Friend

by Quallian42



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quallian42/pseuds/Quallian42
Summary: Fill for the "Bad Things Happen (to Jaskier) Bingo" slot, "Accidentally Hurt by a Friend", except Jaskier and Geralt are a little bit more than friends in this one.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658455
Comments: 8
Kudos: 442





	Accidentally Hurt by a Friend

**Author's Note:**

> The fills are all unconnected, but set in a universe where Geralt and Jaskier are together, and Jaskier is pretty friendly with the other Witchers.

Geralt stared at Jaskier in shock, still holding on to the bard’s wrist. His eyes went from Jaskier’s white face, loose with surprise and pain, with betrayal, down to his shoulder. The shoulder that sat at an odd angle, bent inwards at an unnatural angle beneath his doublet. Below it, the arm dangled limply. The Witcher could still feel the pull, then resistance, then a gut wrenching slack as he had so very easily yanked the smaller man’s shoulder out of its socket.

“What the fuck? Geralt!” Jaskier’s indignant shriek felt like a slap, and Geralt dropped the bard’s wrist. 

Geralt hadn’t been thinking. Hadn’t even considered.

It had been a long night. That was Geralt’s only excuse. A long night, following an equally long day. The kikimora hunt had been a bust. Hours of waiting in the bitterly cold rain with nothing to show for it except a headache. Jaskier, warm and well fed in the tavern, smug at his misfortune. The bard had been singing endlessly, fraying the last bits of patience that Geralt had with every bawdy song, or gulp of ale stolen from the Witcher’s tankard. He loved the man, truly, but there were times when he wanted to strangle the annoying little shit. Judging by the bard’s flirtatious winks, or the less than subtle innuendos, Jaskier knew exactly the effect he was having. Had probably been hoping to wind Geralt up just in such a way, daring him to react.

When Jaskier made his next circuit around the room, reaching out for the sweet roll on Geralt’s plate as he walked past, Geralt had thought nothing of grabbing the wrist, tugging. His intent had been simply to pull the bard off balance, letting him trip, or stumble. Using it as a pretext to drag him up to their shared room and separate him from that damn noisy lute.

But Jaskier had side stepped, the table suddenly between them, and somehow between his legs getting tangled around the bench and Geralt trying to use his grip to control the fall, the younger man’s arm had simply come free from its moorings with a pop.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier repeated, trying to tuck his wounded arm to his side without moving it. “Geralt!” The other arm oscillated between trying to hold its brother steady, and flapping about wildly. 

“Hush” Geralt commanded, rounding the table, conscious that every eye in the tavern was on them now. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.” The words were more for the audience than Jaskier. He didn’t particularly care what they thought, but his lover was concerned with the Witcher’s reputation, and wouldn’t be happy if they managed to tarnish it with rumors that Geralt was some sort of abusive partner.

“Let me look at it.” 

“No!” Jaskier stumbled back and Geralt had to leap the last bit of space between them, grabbing the bard, gently, to keep him from falling. The jolt of it had to have hurt though, the way Jaskier’s knees buckled. Carefully, he lowered him to the bench, letting his hand hover near the distorted shoulder without touching it. He brought his other hand up to cup the back of Jaskier’s neck. Trying to offer him comfort. 

“I know it hurts. I’m sorry. But I can fix it, okay. And then you can yell at me.” Geralt deserved to be yelled at. How could he be so careless. He stayed still, waiting for Jaskier to calm down, to settle into the shock of having a dislocated limb. He knew from experience how painful it could be.

Jaskier sniffled a little, eyes wide and wet, but he nodded.

Geralt knocked their foreheads together softly, then stood up, considering the logistics of his next move. He could let Jaskier walk, but the stairs would jostle the arm. Over the shoulder, while his preferred method of moving a reluctant bard, was out in this case. 

Right.

He stood up swiftly and yanked at his belt, freeing the strip of leather from around his waist, and fashioning it into a loop. “This will hurt.” Without giving Jaskier time to protest he dropped the belt over the younger man’s head, carefully feeding the injured arm through the loop and arranging the whole contraption to strap down the shoulder as much as possible. He picked up the abandoned lute and slung it over his own shoulder before sliding an arm below Jaskier’s knees, the other coming around his back. He picked the bard up as slowly as possible, and didn’t even comment as Jaskier buried his face against his neck, wiping tears and snot against his high collar.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated.

. . . . 

Climbing the stairs was awkward. Nearly as awkward as trying to get the door to their room open with exactly one free hand between them. No where near as awkward as the silence between them now as Jaskier sat on the bed, waiting for the poppy tincture to take effect and trying to see his own injured shoulder.

After the third apology in a row Jaskier had told him to shut up, so Geralt had pursed his lips and tried to busy himself with cutting a sheet into a serviceable sling, or rerolling the strips of linen.

“It hurts.” Jaskier complained. 

“I know.” Geralt answered. 

“You swear you can fix it?” the bard asked, a slight slur rounding out his question.

“Yes. Don’t poke it.” Geralt approached the bed and sat down softly, reaching out to lift Jaskier’s chin. The poppy was clearly starting to take effect, judging by the blown pupils, and the way the bard’s eyes didn’t quite track.

“I’ll have to put it back into place, and it will hurt, a lot.” Geralt said honestly. “But once it’s back you will feel better.” He didn’t mention that Jaskier would have to wear a sling for several weeks, or the possibility of long lasting damage. 

“Okay.” Jaskier murmured, tilting his face into his lover’s hand. The shock of the injury had given way to the fear of losing the use of his arm, to worry over Geralt’s guilt in the whole matter. Jaskier’s emotions had always been fickle, swift to change, and it seemed that being mauled by a giant oaf that was supposed to be your companion wasn’t high on his list of concerns. Each flinch, or gasp tore at Geralt’s chest all the same.

And since the bard wouldn’t let him apologize, he offered the next best thing. A distraction.

“The first time it happened to me was a Harpy.” Geralt unbuttoned the doublet, stripping it off Jaskier with care. The chemise he unlaced and pulled over so that he could see the shoulder. It would be too painful to take it off over Jaskier’s head, and Geralt wouldn’t survive if he attempted to slice it off.

“Had been snatching up sheep mostly, but the village was worried children would be next.” He continued as he tipped the drugged bard over gently, supporting his shoulder as he lowered him down to the mattress. “She was huge, with talons the size of daggers, and ragged feathers in her wings.” He reached down, pulling Jaskier’s legs up on the bed, straightening them out. The younger man blinked up at him, obviously trying to concentrate on the story. Good.

“Harpy’s live on cliffs. They like to build their nests there to keep their eggs safe. Easy enough for them, but a hell of a climb for Witchers” Continuing to speak softly, Geralt felt the distorted the joint, the wrongness of the curve and jut of bone. He braced it with one hand, letting the other trail down Jaskier’s arm.

“She knocked me right off the cliff. Luckily, my boot caught in the fork of a tree that was growing out of the cliff face. It stopped me from falling even more. Unluckily it stopped me very suddenly. I was dangling upside down, halfway up a cliff with a harpy screeching at me, and my hip torn out of its socket.” Geralt carefully rotated Jaskier’s arm, testing the movement. At the bard’s whimper, he hushed him, squeezing the forearm in his grasp soothingly.

“I was stuck. Couldn’t climb back up, down didn’t seem like a very good option. The only thing I could do was wait, pretend to be dead and hope the Harpy decided I would make a good meal.”  
Geralt frowned at the limb, not liking the catch he could feel, or the heat of the swelling that would soon make the job more difficult. As gently as he could he repositioned the joints, lining them up again. He glanced over at Jaskier, met eyes clouded with the pain relieving effects of poppy, trying to conjure up as many details as he could remember.

“It took a long time, but finally she swooped in, snatched me up by the waist. I grabbed on to her legs. Held on to we were on solid ground again. Shoved a dagger into her eye.” Without warning, Geralt tightened his hold and yanked, feeling the joint grate under his palm as it slid back into place. 

Jaskier howled.

“Yeah. That was her reaction too.” With a tight smile, Geralt patted the shoulder before gripping it again, turning it this way and that, lifting and twisting the arm. The range of motion was good, the joint was solid. He checked the pulse in Jaskier’s elbow and then his wrist, pleased to find it easily. His own dislocation hadn’t been as quick to fix, and he had been forced to try several times before getting it right.

“Bastard” Jaskier muttered. Geralt frowned, feeling the guilt and the phantom shock of hurting Jaskier, however unintentionally.

“I know. Move your fingers. Try to make a fist.” The fingers wriggled, playing some ridiculously complicated pattern on an invisible lute, all but one finger curled up into a loose fist, and once Jaskier had made his point, the lone finger curled up too before the hand relaxed. 

“It does feel better” the bard admitted grudgingly, allowing Geralt to maneuver his arm into a sling.

“It will be sore for a little while.” Geralt hesitated “You won’t be able to play for a month or two.”

“And I’ll be very put out about that when I’m not drugged to the gills” Jaskier agreed, shifting until his head was in Geralt’s lap.

“And I’ll probably complain. Maybe even whine, and you’ll mope around feeling like you’re a horrible monster, which is already getting annoying.” Jaskier’s uninjured arm came up and he tugged on Geralt’s hair. “It was an accident. Stop. Pouting.” He emphasized each command with another tug.

“But-“

“No.” the tone brooked no argument, and Geralt sighed, disentangling Jaskier’s grip and lacing their fingers together to rest on the bed. Jaskier might not like it, but Geralt still felt guilty.

“Of course” Jaskier continued, magnanimously, “If you feel that bad about it you can finish the harpy story. Then I want one about a rusalka, or a dryad.”

Geralt groaned, feeling his headache return. But he took the offer for what it was, a path to redemption. One that Jaskier obviously didn’t think he needed, but freely gave.

“Harpies rarely roost alone,” He began, settling Jaskier more comfortably in his lap. “and her screeches had attracted her mate.”


End file.
